Running with the Demon (5 page)

The bad feelings had come to a head six months earlier, when the union had entered into negotiations for a new contract. A yearly cost-of-living increase in the hourly wage, better medical benefits, an expansion of what qualified as piecework, and a paid-holiday program were some of the demands on the union’s agenda. A limited increase without escalators in the hourly wage over the next five years, a cutback in medical benefits, a narrowing down of the types of payments offered for piecework, and an elimination of paid holidays were high on the list of counterdemands made by the company. A deadlock was quickly reached. Arbitration was refused by both sides, each choosing to wait out the other. A strike deadline was set by the union. A back-to-work deadline was set by the company. As the deadlines neared and no movement was achieved
in the bargaining process, both union and company went public with their grievances. Negotiators for each side kept popping up on television and radio to air out the particulars of the latest outrage perpetrated by the other. Soon both sides were talking to everyone but each other.

Then, one hundred and seven days ago, the union had struck the fourteen-inch and the wire mill. The strike soon escalated to include the twenty-four-inch and the twelve-inch, and then all of MidCon was shut down. At first no one worried much. There had been strikes before, and they had always resolved themselves. Besides, it was springtime, and with the passing of another bitterly cold Midwest winter, everyone was feeling hopeful and renewed. But a month went by and no progress was made. A mediator was called in at the behest of the mayor of Hopewell and the governor of the State of Illinois and with the blessing of both union and management, but he failed to make headway. A few ugly incidents on the picket line hardened feelings on both sides. By then, the effect of the strike was being felt by everyone—smaller companies who did business with the mill or used their products, retailers who relied on the money spent by the mill’s employees, and professional people whose clientele was in large part composed of management and union alike. Everyone began to choose sides.

After two months, the company announced that it would no longer recognize the union and that it would accept back those workers who wished to return to their old jobs, but that if those workers failed to return in seven days, new people would be brought in to replace them. On June 1, it would start up the fourteen-inch mill using company supervisors as workers. The company called this action the first step in a valid decertification process; the union called it strikebreaking and union busting. The union warned against trying to use scabs in place of “real” workers, of trying to cross the picket line, of doing anything but continuing to negotiate with the union team. It warned that use of company people on the line was foolhardy and dangerous. Only trained personnel should attempt to operate the machinery. The company replied that it would
provide whatever training was deemed necessary and suggested the union start bargaining in good faith.

From there, matters only got worse. The company started up the fourteen-inch several times, and each time shut it down again after only a few days. There were reports by the union of unnecessary injuries and by the company of sabotage. Replacement workers were bused in from surrounding cities, and fights took place on the picket line. The national guard was brought in on two occasions to restore order. Finally MidCon shut down again for good and declared that the workers were all fired and the company was for sale. All negotiations came to a halt. No one even bothered to pretend at making an effort anymore. Another month passed. The pickets continued, no one made any money, and the community of Hopewell and its citizens grew steadily more depressed.

Now, with the summer heat reaching record highs, spring’s hopes were as dry as the dust that coated the roadways, and the bad feelings had burned down to white-hot embers.

Old Bob reached Lincoln Highway, turned on the lighted arrow off Sinnissippi Road, and headed for town. He passed the Kroger supermarket and the billboard put up six months ago by the Chamber of Commerce that read
WELCOME TO HOPEWELL
,
ILLINOIS
!
WE’RE GROWING YOUR WAY
! The billboard was faded and dust-covered in the dull shimmer of the late-morning heat, and the words seemed to mock the reality of things. Old Bob rolled up the windows and turned on the air. There weren’t any smells from here on in that mattered to him.

He drove the combined four-lane to where it divided into a pair of one-ways, Fourth Street going west into town, Third Street coming east. He passed several fast-food joints, a liquor store, a pair of gas stations, Quik Dry Cleaners, Rock River Valley Printers, and an electrical shop. Traffic was light. The heat rose off the pavement in waves, and the leaves on the trees that lined the sidewalks hung limp in the windless air. The men and women of Hopewell were closeted in their homes and offices with the air conditioners turned on high, going about the business of their lives with weary determination. Unless summer school had claimed them, the kids were all out at the
parks or swimming pools, trying to stay cool and keep from being bored. At night the temperature would drop ten to fifteen degrees and there might be a breeze, but still no one would be moving very fast. There was a somnolence to the community that suggested a long siesta in progress, a dullness of pace that whispered of despair.

Old Bob shook his head. Well, the Fourth of July was almost here, and the Fourth, with its fireworks and picnics and the dance in the park, might help take people’s minds off their problems.

A few minutes later he pulled into a vacant parking space in front of Josie’s and climbed out of the cab. The sun’s brightness was so intense and the heat’s swelter so thick that for a moment he felt light-headed. He gripped the parking mirror to steady himself, feeling old and foolish, trying desperately to pretend that nothing was wrong as he studied his feet. When he had regained his balance sufficiently to stand on his own, he walked to the parking meter, fed a few coins into the slot, moved to the front door of the coffee shop, and stepped inside.

Cold air washed over him, a welcome relief. Josie’s occupied the corner of Second Avenue and Third Street across from the liquor store, the bank parking lot, and Hays Insurance. Windows running the length of both front walls gave a clear view of the intersection and those trudging to and from their air-conditioned offices and cars. Booths lined the windows, red leather fifties-era banquettes reupholstered and restitched. An L-shaped counter wrapped with stools was situated farther in, and a scattering of tables occupied the available floor space between. There were fresh-baked doughnuts, sweet rolls, and breads displayed in a glass case at the far end of the counter, and coffee, espresso, hot chocolate, tea, and soft drinks to wash those down. Josie’s boasted black cows, green rivers, sarsaparillas, and the thickest shakes for miles. Breakfast was served anytime, and you could get lunch until three, when the kitchen closed. Takeout was available and frequently used. Josie’s had the best daytime food in town, and almost everyone drifted in to sample it at least once or twice a week.

Old Bob and his union pals were there every day. Before the
mill was shut down, only those who had retired came in on a regular basis, but now all of them showed up every morning without fail. Most were already there as Old Bob made his way to the back of the room and the clutch of tables those who had gotten there first had shoved together to accommodate latecomers. Old Bob waved, then detoured toward the service counter. Carol Blier intercepted him, asked how he was doing, and told him to stop by the office sometime for a chat. Old Bob nodded and moved on, feeling Carol’s eyes following him, measuring his step. Carol sold life insurance.

“Well, there you are,” Josie greeted from behind the counter, giving him her warmest smile. “Your buddies have been wondering if you were coming in.”

Old Bob smiled back. “Have they now?”

“Sure. They can’t spit and walk at the same time without you to show them how—you know that.” Josie cocked one eyebrow playfully. “I swear you get better-looking every time I see you.”

Old Bob laughed. Josie Jackson was somewhere in her thirties, a divorcée with a teenage daughter and a worthless ex-husband last seen heading south about half a dozen years ago. She was younger-looking than her years, certainly younger-acting, with big dark eyes and a ready smile, long blondish hair and a head-turning body, and most important of all a willingness to work that would put most people to shame. She had purchased Josie’s with money loaned to her by her parents, who owned a carpet-and-tile business. Having worked much of her adult life as a waitress, Josie Jackson knew what she was doing, and in no time her business was the favorite breakfast and lunch spot in Hopewell. Josie ran it with charm and efficiency and a live-and-let-live attitude that made everyone feel welcome.

“How’s Evelyn?” she asked him, leaning her elbows on the counter as she fixed him with her dark eyes.

He shrugged. “Same as always. Rock of ages.”

“Yeah, she’ll outlive us all, won’t she?” Josie brushed at her tousled hair. “Well, go on back. You want your usual?”

Old Bob nodded, and Josie moved away. If he’d been
younger and unattached, Old Bob would have given serious consideration to hooking up with Josie Jackson. But then that was the way all the old codgers felt, and most of the young bucks, too. That was Josie’s gift.

He eased through the clustered tables, stopping for a brief word here and there, working his way back to where the union crowd was gathered. They glanced up as he approached, one after the other, giving him perfunctory nods or calling out words of greeting. Al Garcia, Mel Riorden, Derry Howe, Richie Stoudt, Penny Williamson, Mike Michaelson, Junior Elway, and one or two more. They made room for him at one end of the table, and he scooted a chair over and took a seat, sinking comfortably into place.

“So this guy, he works in a post office somewhere over in Iowa, right?” Mel Riorden was saying. He was a big, overweight crane operator with spiky red hair and a tendency to blink rapidly while he was speaking. He was doing so now. Like one of those ads showing how easy it is to open and close a set of blinds. Blink, blink, blink. “He comes to work in a dress. No, this is the God’s honest truth. It was right there in the paper. He comes to work in a dress.”

“What color of dress?” Richie Stoudt interrupted, looking genuinely puzzled, not an unusual expression for Richie.

Riorden looked at him. “What the hell difference does that make? It’s a dress, on a man who works in a post office, Richie! Think about it! Anyway, he comes to work, this guy, and his supervisor sees the dress and tells him he can’t work like that, he has to go home and change. So he does. And he comes back wearing a different dress, a fur coat, and a gorilla mask. The supervisor tells him to go home again, but this time he won’t leave. So they call the police and haul him away. Charge him with disturbing the peace or something. But this is the best part. Afterward, the supervisor tells a reporter—this is true, now, I swear—tells the reporter, with a straight face, that they are considering psychiatric evaluation for the guy.
Considering!
”

“You know, I read about a guy who took his monkey to the emergency room a few weeks back.” Albert Garcia picked up the conversation. He was a small, solid man with thinning dark
hair and close-set features, a relative newcomer to the group, having come up from Houston with his family to work at MidCon less than ten years ago. Before the strike, he set the rolls in the fourteen-inch. “The monkey was his pet, and it got sick or something. So he hauls it down to the emergency room. This was in Arkansas, I think. Tells the nurse it’s his baby. Can you imagine? His baby!”

“Did it look anything like him?” Mel Riorden laughed.

“This isn’t the same guy, is it?” Penny Williamson asked suddenly. He was a bulky, heavy-featured black man with skin that shone almost as blue as oiled steel. He was a foreman in the number-three plant, steady and reliable. He shifted his heavy frame slightly and winked knowingly at Old Bob. “You know, the postal-worker guy again?”

Al Garcia looked perplexed. “I don’t think so. Do you think it could be?”

“So what happened?” Riorden asked as he bit into a fresh Danish. His eyes blinked like a camera shutter. He rearranged the sizable mound of sweet rolls he had piled on a plate in front of him, already choosing his next victim.

“Nothing.” Al Garcia shrugged. “They fixed up the monkey and sent him home.”

“That’s it? That’s the whole story?” Riorden shook his head.

Al Garcia shrugged again. “I just thought it was bizarre, that’s all.”

“I think you’re bizarre.” Riorden looked away dismissively. “Hey, Bob, what news from the east end this fine morning?”

Old Bob accepted with a nod the coffee and sweet roll Josie scooted in front of him. “Nothing you don’t already know. It’s hot at that end of town, too. Any news from the mill?”

“Same old, same old. The strike goes on. Life goes on. Everybody keeps on keeping on.”

“I been getting some yard work out at Joe Preston’s,” Richie Stoudt offered, but everyone ignored him, because if brains were dynamite he didn’t have enough to blow his nose.

“I’ll give you some news,” Junior Elway said suddenly. “There’s some boys planning to cross the picket line if they can
get their jobs back. It was just a few at first, but I think there’s more of them now.”

Old Bob considered him wordlessly for a moment. Junior was not the most reliable of sources. “That so, Junior? I don’t think the company will allow it, after all that’s happened.”

“They’ll allow it, all right,” Derry Howe cut in. He was a tall, angular man with close-cropped hair and an intense, suspicious stare that made people wonder. He’d been a bit strange as a boy, and two tours in Vietnam hadn’t improved things. Since Nam, he’d lost a wife, been arrested any number of times for drinking and driving, and spotted up his mill record until it looked like someone had sneezed into an inkwell. Old Bob couldn’t understand why they hadn’t fired him. He was erratic and error-prone, and those who knew him best thought he wasn’t rowing with all his oars in the water. Junior Elway was the only friend he had, which was a dubious distinction. He was allowed to hang out with this group only because he was Mel Riorden’s sister’s boy.